The Macedonian Hazard

by Eric Flint

  Tacaran was muttering prayers as he packed up the radio, and he wasn’t the only one. Eumenes’ army too was in a kind of shock as they took the eastern shore of the Bosphorus. The battle had been a cakewalk for them, but these were the cultural heirs of Achilles, for whom battle was a personal thing. No longer single combat perhaps, but still sword against sword, spear against spear, man against man.

  Rockets launched across the Bosphorus by men sitting in protected comfort turning little knobs to adjust their aim? All while their victims were decimated and more?

  It was just wrong.

  How the army responded to it depended on the individual. The most cynical concluded that dead was dead and the job of the army was to make the bastards on the other side dead. But while that attitude was often expressed, it was a thin veneer. Something older, something left over from much younger men who had flocked to the banners of Philip II and Alexander the Great, to prove to the world, and to themselves most of all, that they were men.

  Where, they asked often in the privacy of their soul, was the glory in this?

  * * *

  Thales of Miletus sat his horse and looked at the hole in the ground. There was an arm sticking out of the hole. No body. Just the arm. And he thought about going home and giving up being a soldier. He was not yet thirty and had served in Alexander’s army only for the last eight years. Even so, much of his work was fortifications, for Thales was a well-educated man of the upper classes. Alexander—or rather, Alexander’s generals—had put his education to work. Especially Eumenes.

  He was still sitting there looking into the hole when Heraclitus rode up, looked into the hole and said, “Everything changes. It’s the nature of the world.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Thales said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Neither am I,” Heraclitus admitted. “It’s true nonetheless. I believe it more now than I ever have. With the ship people, everything has changed.”

  “Well, if everything has changed, what in Hades are we doing here?”

  “I think we need to find a new reason to stay, or go home,” Heraclitus said.

  Thales sat his horse, looked at the arm in the mud, and thought. After a few moments, he looked at his old friend. “I’m going to go see the ship people.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out why they are out here fighting with Eumenes. Why they fight at all.”

  * * *

  Tacaran spoke Spanish, French, and English, with the addition of Greek since The Event. His Greek was still new, but he was less dependent on the translation app than Erica was, so he did most of the talking to the Greek soldiery, even though Erica had a college education and was in charge of the mission.

  When the two well-dressed Greek cavalrymen came riding up, Tacaran held up a hand. “Sorry, guys,” he said in badly accented Greek. “We’ve already packed up the radio and we won’t unpack it till we get somewhere reasonably secure.”

  “That’s not what we want,” said the taller of the two men.

  “What then?”

  The cavalrymen dismounted and turned to face him. Then they hesitated, as though not sure what to say. The shorter man finally burst out with, “What are you doing here?”

  Tacaran felt in his pocket for the pistol that had cost him a small fortune. He didn’t have that much ammunition for it, but it was his “final friend” if everything went to crap.

  “That’s not what he means,” said the other one.

  “What does he mean?” Tacaran asked, still nervous.

  “He wants to know why you work for Eumenes.” Then, clearly searching for words, “Why you took the job.”

  “Took the job” wasn’t the only way that phrase could be translated, but it was one of them, and Tacaran thought in this case it might be the right one. “How do you mean?” he asked. Then, not waiting for an answer, he said, “For the money, but that’s not what you want to know. Is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” said the shorter one. Then, wrapping his horse reins in his fist, he added, “I’m Heraclitus of Miletus and that’s Thales. He was named after a philosopher, and he thinks it makes him have profound thoughts.”

  “And Heraclitus here was named after Heraclitus the Obscure, and that just makes him a pain in the arse.”

  Tacaran grinned at the two men. “Okay, my philosophical friends. That helps. Are you asking for the philosophical answer? Like ‘what are we fighting for’?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Well, let me ask you then. Why did you join Eumenes?”

  They talked about it for a few minutes, as they were taken down odd roads by the differences in language, and what they came up with was that Thales and Heraclitus had both become soldiers to prove themselves. And difficulties of translation aside, they were pretty open about it. Not at all ashamed, which Tacaran found odd. To Thales and Heraclitus, the notion that the toughest son of a bitch in the valley deserved to be honored and get everything he wanted simply because he was the toughest son of a bitch in the valley seemed perfectly okay.

  It wasn’t okay to Tacaran, but it happened. It happened in the twenty-first century all the time, but it wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to honor people for the good they did. For their devotion to God, or to the country, or…well, any number of things. But the only time you were supposed to honor them for being tough was when that toughness was put to a good cause. Well, maybe a boxer or a martial artist was an exception. But, in general, it was the content of their character and being a tough son of a bitch wasn’t necessarily even a good thing. And that sent Tacaran back to their question to him as they walked along, them leading their horses, him walking beside the wagon that contained the radio and their gear.

  Tacaran looked up at the wagoneer, who was following their conversation with interest. Then he looked at Erica Mirzadeh, who had gotten her phone out to try and follow along. “What do you think, Erica?”

  Erica shrugged uncertainly, then said, “‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights. That among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’”

  Tacaran wasn’t an American. For that matter, before The Event he hadn’t been all that fond of America, at least not its government’s policies. But he knew that quote. Almost everyone on Earth knew that quote in the twenty-first century. And basically, he agreed with it, at least in principle. He knew perfectly well that some people were smarter, some were stronger, some were—he looked over at Thales and Heraclitus—tougher. Even that some had hideaway pistols and others didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the government shouldn’t make distinctions based on those things, either to take from those with ability or to lock out those with less. “It’s not like the United Satrapies and States of the Empire has abolished slavery, Erica.”

  “One step at a time, Tacaran. One step at a time.” Then she spoke to Thales and Heraclitus in broken—well, shattered—Greek. “Eumenes and Eurydice, the empire, they are trying to put a system in place where people will be able to live out their lives in peace and prosperity. That’s worth doing. At least, I think it is.”

  Tacaran thought it was too. And the Queen of the Sea was spreading the seeds of that dream all over the world. At least, it was trying to.

  CHAPTER 8

  Setbacks and Stratagems

  Queen of the Sea, Trinidad, New America

  February 11, 319 BCE

  Olympias sat at the table, clearly trying not to glare at Marie Easley. She wasn’t doing a good job of it, but she was trying. Over the last month Marie had come to realize that when she laughed at Olympias’ spell casting, she hadn’t just embarrassed the woman. She had done the equivalent of spitting on the Koran or stomping on the cross. Olympias didn’t just use magic to influence others. She believed in it as much as any Bible-thumping pastor or monk in a monastery.

  The horror of it for Olympias was that most of t
he cornerstones and rites of her faith had been lost entirely as other faiths superseded hers. That her god would not survive into the twenty-first century spat on the notion of permanence that was so much a part of almost all faiths.

  Marie knew all that, but that didn’t make the other woman’s simmering fury much easier to put up with.

  Roxane looked between them and said, “The investigation has hit a standstill. Daniel Lang dusted the carafe for prints and took the prints of anyone that would have had a legitimate reason to touch it. There was one partial that didn’t match up to Aida Pondong, who made the cocoamat, Dag, or Travis.”

  “And that partial didn’t match any of my fingerprints,” Olympias said. “I know. You told me days after the poisoning, when you made me put ink on my fingers and press the cards. Is Lang still insisting that I simply hired someone to put the poison in the carafe?”

  “It’s one theory that he continues to investigate,” Marie said. “But I think even he has mostly given up on it. That leaves just four thousand or so other suspects.”

  “And he won’t take everyone’s fingerprints because it would be a violation of their civil rights. Yes, so you’ve said.”

  “Diplomatic immunity is even more of an issue,” Roxane said. “Daniel insists that he needs probable cause.”

  “So you have said. Meanwhile, the whole ship continues to look upon me as an incompetent poisoner.”

  Then Dag Jakobsen came in from the other room with the three-year-old Alexander IV on his shoulder. “Not me. I’m quite sure that you’re an effective poisoner. Snow White would have been dead as a doornail if it had been you.”

  Olympias looked at him for a moment then said, with apparent sincerity, “Thank you, Dag.”

  Marie looked at Dag, then back to Olympias. In spite of the mutual distaste, she felt a little sympathy for Olympias. She, personally, was convinced that Olympias was innocent, and being condemned in the general perception couldn’t be comfortable. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. The investigation was stalled and there was simply too much else to do to focus that many resources on it.

  Queen of the Sea, Fort Plymouth, Trinidad, New America

  February 12, 319 BCE

  “Can’t the Reliance do that?” Lars asked. “Understand, Mr. President, I approve of the fueling station on Saint Helena, but can’t Adrian deliver the necessary start-up equipment?”

  “The Reliance is already on the way, as you well know,” President Wiley said, frustration quite clear in his voice.

  “I meant on the next trip, Mr. President.” Honestly, Lars didn’t like Al Wiley, even if he had grown to respect him. He was a competent politician and showed occasional statesmanlike behavior. He was also a good administrator, something that Lars would not have believed from Al Wiley’s first reaction to The Event. But the man had a tendency to think of the Queen of the Sea as his navy and of Lars as under his command. But she wasn’t, damn it. The Queen of the Sea was her own…well, not quite nation, but getting close to it. She wasn’t under the authority of Al Wiley any more than she was under Ptolemy’s.

  “That will screw up the Reliance’s schedule, and more than that, several of the materials and components that we wish you to deliver to Saint Helena are most readily produced on the Queen.” Then Wiley narrowed his eyes and asked, “What will it take, Captain?”

  And the negotiation was on. Eleanor Kinney, his chief purser and in these circumstances his chief negotiator supported by Marie Easley, took over and fought Amanda Miller, Congressman Lacula, and Al Wiley. There were complaints that to fulfill their desires would cause the raising of taxes on the still very young nation. That it would cause inflation as the unreasonable demands drove up the price of latex.

  But three days later, the Queen sailed for Saint Helena and her holds held an abundance of preprocessed and purified latex, the natural precursor to rubber. Rubber products like seals, water bottles, and—most especially—condoms, were bringing a fortune in Alexandria and Athens.

  Queen of the Sea, Saint Helena

  February 23, 319 BCE

  The Reliance was already there when the Queen of the Sea arrived. And a crew of workers were already building a tank farm.

  “What are you finding, Captain Dahl?” asked Doug Warren over the radio.

  “I don’t have a clue, Doug. There are trees, I can tell you that, and birds out the kazoo. But I know very little beyond that, besides the fact that Yolanda Davis’ pet environmentalist, Kai Mumea, is pretty keen on it all. I haven’t seen him since we landed. He’s been wandering the island, taking notes. I do think that this place can produce some good income. Mike Kimball says that the forests are old growth, with some potentially valuable woods. But the big prize is Madagascar.”

  Mike was a car salesman who, with his wife and teenage daughter, was vacationing on the Queen when The Event happened. A political adherent of Al Wiley, he was appointed to the post of governor of St. Helena until such time as the colony grew to the point that elections were practicable. He was also the manager of the weather station and his wife was in charge of the shortwave radio station that would connect the island to New America and the Queen of the Sea. In total there were fifteen families and just over a hundred people in the colony, along with twenty-five people who were to stay on St. Helena only until it was determined where the refueling station on the east side of Africa was to be placed. As a matter of policy, New America was trying wherever possible to expand into territory where no one yet lived.

  “If Madagascar isn’t inhabited,” Doug pointed out. The great and holy Wiki said that the first evidence of foraging was around 2000 BCE, but there was argument about when colonization started. Anywhere from already there to not for five hundred years. “Anyway I don’t think you’re going to get the skipper to go around the horn to Madagascar this trip.”

  “Why not? The Reliance is going to be stuck here for at least another couple of weeks, helping to get the station set up, and you could spend that time giving Madagascar a look-see.”

  “Why not? Because Eumenes has crossed the Bosphorus into Thrace and Roxane wants to get back to the Med as soon as she can.”

  “Hey, Doug. I grant that Roxane is hot, but she’s not Helen of Troy to be launching fleets.”

  Doug Warren looked up then to see Captain Floden looking at him. “I’ll give you the captain, Captain Dahl.” He handed the phone to the skipper, and went back to his job.

  Thrace

  February 23, 319 BCE

  The arrows were coming in sheets as Lysimachus’ archers fired and fired again, while Seuthes wondered how he had gotten so much of his army here so fast. He had to have abandoned the Bosphorus, and made a forced march up the coast of the Black Sea. The land was rolling hills and Seuthes was on a hill with his men formed up in the Macedonian style. They had the long sarissa, but Lysimachus was hitting him with arrows and Seuthes’ men lacked the experience of Lysimachus’ army.

  An arrow thunked into the shield his shield bearer was holding up, but Seuthes barely noticed, he was so focused on trying to find a way out of the trap. This battle never should have happened. He looked east to where his cavalry was engaged with the larger cavalry of Lysimachus and cursed himself for a fool. He should have stayed in Chernomorets, forted up. More arrows and Lysimachus’ infantry was moving up. That was the good news. Lysimachus didn’t have that much infantry. Alexander’s Anvil was smaller than usual. That might…yes, that might be a way.

  He turned to his flautist and gave orders. Then the flutes screamed.

  He watched as he sat his horse. His infantry, under the command of Cotys, his son, turned and, sarissa upraised, marched directly toward the archers. There was a screen of infantry between him and the archers and if his cavalry broke, the hammer of the enemy cavalry would pound him to pieces against Lysimachus’ infantry. But it was better than standing here while his army drowned in a rain of arrows.

  * * *

  Telos waved his sword in a c
ircle, pointed at the enemy, and his Thracian cavalry charged. He swung and missed, ducked under the Macedonian’s counterthrust and was by, on to the next. He swung again, and hit. But most of the blow was deflected by the armor. The counter was way off, but the horses collided and his bay lost its footing. He leapt as it rolled and landed in the mud that the horse hooves had turned the field into. He struggled to rise and made it to his knees, then had to fling himself aside as one of his own men almost crushed him. A hand reached down and he grasped it.

  * * *

  Back on his feet, Telos looked around and could see little of the battle, just the fighting that surrounded him. He tried to get out of the melee so that he could see what was going on, but it took time. Time the rest of the army didn’t have.

  * * *

  Cotys rode at the front of the infantry and reined his prancing horse to keep pace with the slow pace of the army. Arrows fell among his men and several came close to hitting him, but he paid them little attention. His attention was focused on the enemy infantry. The Macedonians were a mix of veterans and stay-at-homes, as were his men. Large numbers of Thracians had gone with Alexander to Asia and many had come home to Thrace and given service to his family. Cotys strove to be worthy of that service.

  There. The enemy were bringing their sarissa into position. He looked at Oineus, a veteran of twenty years with Alexander, and Oineus nodded. He lowered his sword and shouted, “Ready the sarissa.”

  The sarissa came down, and the armies kept moving.

  An arrow came down out of the sky and struck between the breast and back plate of Cotys’ armor, in the gap that was only covered by leather straps. The razor-sharp arrowhead sliced through the toughened leather like it was butter. Sliced through the muscles of his shoulder and into his shoulder blade where it quivered and shook and caused his shoulder to scream in agony with every move. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he sat his horse and stayed with his troops as the army marched forward and the sarissa crossed and interpenetrated. Men started to die on both sides, and he held his place shouting encouragement as the blood flowed.